A Scout's Honour
Thorin and his company depart from Rivendell on a clear, brisque morning, as the great trees begin to shed their leaves. The winding paths that lead them from the Last Homely House towards the Misty Mountains are awash in a dozen umber shades; dark oranges fade into lush reds, the ground stained with gold.
The sight of Autumn burns like a fire in the pit of Thorin's chest, and he cannot stop his mind from lingering on his gamzûna.
In the hours before they departed Rivendell, word arrived of the mysterious Hobbit warrior and her strange company following the winding Anduin south, just mere miles east of their current position.
He could have followed her. Thorin, King To Be Under The Mountain, could have abandoned his duty and plunged towards the Eastern paths that would lead him to his heart. The temptation was strong as he lingered on the forked path ahead; but he smothered it. He would have to trust his ghivashel and whatever scheme she is cooking.
At least he knows Noid would have her back, however far her path led her away from him. Assuming Noid is the dwarf said to be following her, and not some hapless fool pulled unwittingly into one of her harebrained schemes.
Instead, Thorin leads his company east, ignoring the burning need to turn south towards her, and onwards to Erebor.
The days pass almost too easily as they make their way over the mountains, and the weather, once one of the many foes they were forced to contend with in another life, holds. He is at once grateful and suspicious, the reminder of the giants' battle is never far from his mind. He keeps a close eye on his sister-sons, even as they leave the mountain passes behind them.
With no goblins to face–their encampment wiped out long ago in a glorious battle if Elrohir and Elladan's nightly tales around the campfire are to be believed–or orcs following behind, there is no need to stop at Beorn's home. The thought makes him a little sad, even as he pushes the company onward towards the Elvenking's realm.
He has fond memories of the company's time with the Bear Man.
As they trade the mountain paths for an endless green sea of fields, he allows himself to think on those long hot days spent watching and learning his Hobbit.
No one could deny Billa thrived during their stay at Beorn's between the sunshine, long swaying grasses she spent hours frolicking in and the near endless supply of honey, the Hobbit was in her element. Over the years, he has wondered how that Thorin, still so focused on nursing his rage, could have been so stupid to not realise the gift being dangled right in front of him.
That is not what concerns him most at this moment. As he looks out over those fields, he can almost taste the sickly honey on his tongue and smell the sweet scent of the flowers Billa weaved through her hair. The lines between that Thorin and this Thorin are becoming increasingly blurred as he retraces their steps across Middle Earth, and fear plunges cold fingers into his chest to grasp his heart.
While the rest of his company mostly remain in good spirits, Thorin feels himself begin to withdraw again. Erebor looms over them in the distance, a reminder of his duty–and the dark fate awaiting him in the heart of the mountain.
Finally, as the scarce fields bleed into golden woods, the King To Be Under The Mountain is greeted by the entrance to Mirkwood. A firm hand on his shoulder draws his attention to Fíli, and the abrupt silence of his companions.
'Are you sure about this, uncle?'
Thorin can feel their gazes digging into every crevice of him, and the fear tightens in his chest. He almost shakes his head; it will be no easy feat to face Thranduil even with Elrond vouching for their company.
It is more than fear of Elvenking though. If he is completely honest with himself, the time the company spent in Mirkwood in that other life was horrifying. When those dreams first came to him, he would wake in the middle of the night gasping for Billa, suffocating under the terror of the woods and the dark creatures that thrived in its shadows, only to find the space behind him empty.
He thought her dead. Thorin remembers the ache keenly, and the hope that blossomed upon her re-appearance in those cells–a trick she never fully explained to him. He is not sure he will be able to keep his fury restrained should he set foot in the Elvenking's halls.
It's as he's turning to redirect them around Mirkwood that he catches sight of Kíli's face. The dwarf is bristling with barely suppressed hope, his gaze piercing the shadows of Mirkwood, searching.
Thorin exhales.
'We shall meet with the King, and I will consider his proposal as I told Elrond I would,' his voice sounds much stronger than he feels. He takes one step into the woods, and then another, and another, until he is all at once plunged into the darkness of Mirkwood.
The others fall into step behind him, for once the twins' are solemn, their sharp gazes flickering constantly. Thorin tries to keep his footsteps steady, and quietly prays to Mahal that Thranduil's elves find them before whatever creatures lurk in this rotten wood.
He understands now, with his clearer mind, why Billa was so affected those first few days within Mirkwood. The air feels thicker here, cloyingly sweet; a thick canopy of trees overhead block out what little daylight makes it into the forest.
The darkness feels less oppressive than it would in a few years time. He takes some solace in that at least.
'Creepy,' Kíli mutters, his voice barely audible over the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.
'Kíli,' his brother growls. Fíli is entirely too alert, fingers brushing near constantly against blade hilts, arms lined with tension.
'What? I was just saying.'
'You may wish to be more alert, Master Dwarf,' Elrohir intones, the picture of grace were it not for the hand he keeps close to his bow.
'Dangers lurk here unseen even to our Elven sight,' Elladan smirks.
'You are not helping, brother,' Elrohir sighs.
'How far do we travel along this path, elf?' Dwalin rumbles at the rear of their group. His friend looks as comfortable as Thorin feels, Grasper and Keeper in each hand.
'We travel until we meet the Elvenking's people,' Elrohir replies. 'I believe he told Father his guards should be able to escort us to his Halls.'
Thorin tries not to stiffen at the words. He remembers Thranduil's guards all too well.
He tries to take some comfort in the twins at his back. Elrond would not allow Thranduil to throw his only sons into his dungeons, no matter what power the Elvenking declared to have.
They continue along the path for several hours, but there is no sign of Thranduil's so-called guards and Thorin's heart starts to drop down to his boots. He is a fool.
'He has tricked us,' Dwalin mutters. 'There's naebody here.'
'It would take a far greater elf than Thranduil to trick my father, Master Dwarf,' Elladan sniffs. 'There must be trouble to the south. It happens from time to time.'
'You have travelled these paths before?' Kíli's voice is brimming with curiosity.
'Oh yes, a good time or two every few decades or so,' Elladan informs them cheerily. His head is tilted up to the trees, basking in what little starlight peaks through the branches.
'Father requested that we become acquainted with his son a few centuries back,' Elrohir explains.
'We have since made it our mission to remove the stick from his behind.'
'Elrohir,' his brother admonishes him as Kíli and Dwalin chuckle. 'Do not speak ill of our friend.'
'He brings it upon himself, brother.'
'I know the feeling,' Kíli mutters, eyeing his own brother. Fíli thankfully appears to not have heard him, his gaze glued to the solid path beneath their feet, his mind no doubt elsewhere. Thorin wonders briefly if he is thinking of the Hobbit lass he danced with on the night of the wedding, the one he said had eyes of starlight.
The forlorn look on Fíli's face cuts him deep. He wishes the lad listened when he said he would not ask him to follow him to Erebor.
'Kíli.' The dwarf moves forward as Thorin beckons him to his side, 'Scout ahead please.'
'Are you thinking what I am thinking?' His sister-son asks, the amused expression on his face slipping into something more focused.
Thorin nods, and Kíli takes one, two running steps before launching himself into the trees with a surprising amount of grace. Seconds later, he is gone, vanished amidst the leaves.
Dwalin lets out a low whistle, 'I didnae teach him that.'
For the first time in days, Thorin allows a small smile to cross his face, 'I believe that is all Billa.'
He claps his friend on the back and they continue to wander down the path, Thorin keeping the thoughts of his sweet Billa close to mind to chase away the relentless darkness.
#
Kíli decides pretty quickly that whatever thoughts he had of Mirkwood prior to arriving in the forest were clearly wrong.
Sure it's dark, and sort of creepy looking, and every time you look at the shadows a touch too long they feel like they're staring right back–but there's an abundance of life he did not expect. From his perch up amidst the branches, he can see the birds singing, a few weaving through the branches beside him; great fat butterflies in every shade of the rainbow flutter past on a lazy breeze; below him, a few rabbits snuffle at the ground before hopping away on spritely legs.
This is not the Mirkwood he dreamt of, that's for sure.
That, however, is not his most pressing concern. The path through the woods is devoid of the life they are seeking; there is neither a hair nor hide to be seen of the elves.
He wonders if the stories he picked up on the road are true, that Mirkwood has started to fall into ruin, and the elves–once great trade partners of the mortal men–are now withdrawing into their woodland homes, and deeper into the dark.
Kíli draws to stop on one sturdy branch, stilling and slowing his breath as Billa taught him during a particularly rowdy game of Hide and Seek. He counts each breath, feeling his awareness of his surroundings expand until he feels attuned to the rhythm around him. There–a rabbit burrows free from the ground, its step desperate as it tries to catch up to its friends; there–a river dribbles sleepily, the water barely caressing the banks as it pass; there–a bird sings as it takes flight, bursting through the dead leaves towards the sunlight; there–
Crash. Kíli's ear twitches. Curious, he thinks.
The sound grows louder, alongside the thwip, thwip, thwip of arrows flying, a breathy groan and exhale, and then a low whispering almost like–
Kíli launches himself towards the next branch. A hunt, he thinks, or perhaps a fight.
He almost launches himself in the direction of the sound, almost plunges head first into the unknown, when Billa's stern voice rings in his head.
Stop, she says, use that hard head of yours and think.
Mahal.
He grumbles, adjusting his trajectory, until he finds what he is looking for amidst the leaves.
Dwalin shrieks an admittedly high-pitched shriek as he pops out from beneath the leaves, legs wrapped around a low branch so he can dangle a few feet above the company. His uncle swears, while the twins smirk at his antics.
He barely allows himself a quick grin, filing away that shriek for later, before he's speaking, 'Fight ahead. Sounds like it's something big.'
Fíli's head snaps up at that, his eyes suddenly clear and focused, 'How big?'
'Big,' Kíli says firmly. 'We should hurry.'
'Move ahead, Kíli,' Thorin rumbles, pulling his axe from his back. 'We will follow.'
A little thrill shoots through Kíli as he nods, and pulls himself quickly back up into the trees. Up here he will be unhindered by winding roots, cracked stones and mud seeking new boots to consume. He flies across the trees, the thundering sound of his companions behind him, a little voice that sounds almost like Billa guiding him along his path.
'Make sure to watch your step, and think of the power needed to bridge the gap,' the voice whispers. 'We will help you fly, little dwarf.'
He catches the next branch in one hand, and flings himself forward as an inhuman screech echoes through the trees, forcing the birds to take flight. He follows their trail until finally, he sees.
In a clearing ahead, a band of elven warriors are fighting off–his breath catches in his throat and his hands tremble–giant spiders.
He squashes the tightness in his chest, even as his mind screams at the familiarity of the creatures, focusing on the fight before him. Two elves have one spider cornered, while another hacks and slashes their way through a steady stream of eight-legged opponents, and there–in the corner another elf hovers over a child as a spider moves stealthily towards them.
Kíli moves before his mind can quite catch up, arrows flying seamlessly from his bow without thought. They meet their mark, landing with a satisfying squelch in two separate eyeballs. The spider falls with a thud, and the child cries out.
His companions continue to crash through the forest behind him, but their gait is too slow. They will not reach the group in time.
Think, the Billa voice in his head murmurs, Stop and think–
For the love of Mahal, he does not have time to think. So, Kíli does what Kíli always does best.
He launches himself into the fight.
A dagger flies neatly from his side straight into the head of a spider cornered by the elves, finally allowing them to slay the great beast. He doesn't pause to greet them, reaching for a nearby web to swing himself directly into the path of the next oncoming spider. His blade finds its brain before it can even cry out, and arrows are flying from his bow seconds later, two smaller spiders falling at the feet of the elven warrior focused on the onslaught of beasts.
Thorin's war cry resounds from behind him seconds later, allowing him to fully focus on the fight. A blade from his back finds the head of his next opponent, an arrow to the belly of another–sending slimy guts spilling out onto the forest floor and an awful smell he knows would make Billa lose her lunch in mere seconds, two more arrows buried deep into some particularly creepy looking eyeballs, and then–
It is done. The fight is over.
Kíli's chest heaves from exertion as he slowly lowers his bow, eyes boring into the dark, searching.
Crack. Kíli's bow is raised, arrow nocked and string pulled taut as he turns towards the sound.
An elf stands, a blade raised towards him, the edge gleaming in the dim light of the woods. Auburn hair flutters around her face, gaze lifting from the arrow pointed at her towards his face.
'Do not think I will not kill you, dwa–' Bright eyes widen, and her mouth drops open.
Kíli feels his own body tense in response, his gaze narrowing, 'The sentiment is reciprocated in kind, elf.'
She does not respond, her eyes glued to his face, the hand holding her dagger aloft trembling, and–is she crying?
Kíli lowers his bow slightly at the expression on her face. There's some muttering behind them, and he is distantly aware of the brothers stepping forward to converse with the other elves. His diminutive elvish manages to pick up words like 'ambush', 'borders', and 'Thranduil'.
The curious part of him wishes to soak in the language, but he cannot tear his gaze from this crying elf.
'Tauriel?' A soft voice speaks from somewhere nearby, and finally the elf blinks back to the moment. He raises an eyebrow, able to pick up another elf slowly approaching them out of the corner of his eye.
'Is she okay?' He asks, still holding his bow aloft. He won't lower it until he's sure she won't lodge that dagger in his side when he's not looking.
There's a soft murmur, that lilting language washing over him again as a pale hand presses into the elf's shoulder. And then, suddenly, her dagger is falling to the ground and she moves. If he thought elves were fast before, it is nothing in comparison to the sudden grace of the female in front of him.
There's a concerned shout from Fíli, and a startled call from an elf, the only warning he receives before he suddenly has arms full of an elf sobbing into his shoulder. He almost drops his bow from the shock of it, almost stabs her with the arrow still strung; thankfully, she manages to dodge it, allowing him to let the bow drop listlessly to his side.
'Uhm help?' He peers through the curtain of auburn hair obscuring his vision at the twins, who just shrug haplessly at him. Great, what is he supposed to do now? The hand not holding his bow hover over her back, what should he do with his hand? Do elves even like to be comforted the same way as dwarves and Hobbits?
He's just about to pat her back awkwardly when she finally speaks.
'Kíli!' Her voice cracks mournfully around his name.
A shudder runs through him at the sound, and he lifts a startled gaze to his uncle. Thorin's gaze is like a steel blade, sharp and pointed. He says nothing, simply allowing his axe to rest with a thud against the ground and leans his weight against the handle. Dwalin and Fíli follow suit, although his brother keeps a dagger close to the hand.
When it's clear no one will come to his rescue, he finally lets that hovering hand rest against her back. Her leather clad back is cold to the touch, and he can feel the tremors of her grief against his palm. She sobs harder at the touch, burying her chilled face deeper into the crook of his neck.
'I believe,' Thorin speaks, 'this would be a good time to ask you to take us to your leader.'
Dwalin snorts, and Kíli shoots his uncle a wry look. The treacherous curmudgeon. Kíli contemplates pulling away from the distraught elf, just as that auburn hair fills his vision.
–What promise? That I would come back to her–
His hand stills, and he sighs. Better to remain where he is, just in case.
A/N: * peers out from behind the virtual wall * so, uh, hi! I'm hoping a LOT of you did not see that coming. Hopefully you like it?
I wasn't going to post this until I had another chapter written, BUT I only published a mini chapter last time and this is a BEAST of a chapter and well, I have another four in the bank so...aye. Here you go.
I gotta say I love writing the dwarves, as a Scottish person, any excuse to use my Scots is a feckin' delight, let me tell you.
ANYWAY, next: Rivers, and Orcs, and chat about Dwobbits, oh my!